


December

by InfiniteJediLove



Series: Modern Jinnobi AU [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, M/M, Modern AU, Obi-Wan has a sad past, Poverty, Qui-Gon feels many things he is not sure how to say, Qui-Gon thinks Christmas is an amusing display of commercialism, References to past trauma, Subtle Romance, Winter, but different than most christmas fics, references to homophobic society
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 15:26:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17123915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfiniteJediLove/pseuds/InfiniteJediLove
Summary: A month ago, a car accident changed Quentin’s life. Now, as snow falls heavily on the city of East Harbor, Quentin meets Orrin once more.





	December

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when I said that I never thought I’d write a modern Jinnobi AU? Well I did, and I also never thought I’d write a Christmas fic, yet here we are! this is the sequel to my modern Jinnobi story ‘November’. I do plan to write Orrin and Quentin’s story as a series, so this is only part two of hopefully a multi-fic series. I can’t ever guarantee when I’ll have the next installment up (writer’s block/other projects tend to throw a wrench in the works at times), but know that I do plan to write more fics for this modern series.

It was the first day of winter, though the weather had long ago settled on being cold for December, even considering the high snowfall East Harbor normally amassed every year. Quentin paused outside the door of the small shelter that he now worked at, the collar of his dark wool coat turned up against the brisk cold. Snow fell thickly and he watched it for a few minutes, his breath fogging the air.

That same surge of gratitude he had felt over the last few weeks came back. He was fortunate, he knew, to even be alive to witness the snowfall. Since the car accident last month, he was reminded often of his own luck. Particularly, at his new job. The people who came into the shelter were homeless for a variety of reasons; many had had successful careers in the past; quite a few of them had more education than he did. Sometimes there were other circumstances that left a person on the streets, but quite often it was a matter of bad luck and an indifferent government.

Wind blew against Quentin as he crossed the street, his long graying hair clinging to the shoulders of his coat. Snowflakes caught in his short beard, melting against his exposed skin, his cheeks flushed from the cold. Cars waited impatiently for him to finish crossing, and he lengthened his already quick strides. It was a relief to step off the pavement that was vibrating with the hum of paused traffic and onto the opposite sidewalk. He still found that being near so many vehicles bothered him; the squeal of tires or a sounded horn ignited a sharp burst of panic whenever Quentin heard them. He had yet to drive since the accident. He bit his lip, frowning at his own foolishness. He was far too old to allow fear to have such power over him. He had not even been badly injured in the crash.

He shook such thoughts aside, determinedly pushing open the revolving door to East Harbor’s Sociological Research Center. Quentin stood in the lobby for a moment, taking in the familiar sights. He had spent years as an employee here, yet he felt somewhat adrift looking up into the open space with its tall ceilings and gleaming metal and glass surfaces. More Christmas decorations had been put up in his absence though nothing like the often-homemade, cheap decorations that were displayed inside the shelter. Quentin shook his head at the commercialism of it all as he crossed over to the first corridor on the right, his boots leaving a small trail of melting snow behind him.

“Hugh,” he said when he reached a desk that was nearly buried under the weight of a pine tree strung with numerous lights and ornaments. A small, balding man stuck his head around the tree, face splitting into a wide smile.

“Quentin! Did Richards get you to come back?”

“No,” Quentin said, brushing snow from his coat and now damp hair, raising an eyebrow at the mention of his former boss, “I came to speak to Orrin.”

A knowing look came over Hugh’s round face and he reached behind the tree, producing a mug half-full of coffee before he rolled his office chair to the left enough to see Quentin fully.

“Orrin,” he said with contemplative innocence, “The intern?” Quentin sighed at Hugh’s theatrics but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his own mouth.

“It’s work-related,” he emphasized before Hugh could jump to any conclusions. Hugh nodded with fake solemnity.

“Right, work-related.” He took a sip of coffee, spilling some on his bright green tie, “So _work-related_ that you came all the way over from your new job to talk to Orrin Kent, our newest and brightest employee, whose life you incidentally saved a mere few weeks ago.”

“I know where you’re going with this, and I’d appreciate if you didn’t,” Quentin remarked with half-hearted irritation, aware enough of Hugh’s failed attempts at playing matchmaker, “besides, I work right across the street; it’s not that far to walk.”

Hugh waved that aside, nearly upsetting the tree on his desk. He took another sip of coffee, peering speculatively over the mug at Quentin. “Orrin’s on the second floor. He finally got Clara’s printer working.”

Quentin blinked. “You’re not serious.”

“It was a thing of beauty,” Hugh responded with a satisfied smile, “Clara had just about given up hope and Richards said he wasn’t going to pay for another mechanic, but Orrin figured it out right away. Now anytime anything breaks, they have him look at it. I think he’s fixing the water softener right now – the one near the staff room.”

Quentin shook his head. Clara’s printer had become a rather famous anecdote passed between employees at the Sociological Research Center. At least five mechanics that Quentin had known of had been unable to do anything other than temporarily repair it. With a murmured ‘thanks’ to Hugh, he left for the second floor.

He found the small storage room next the to the staff room, the door propped open and the light on. He paused in the doorway, watching the man who was standing near a water softener. The top of the machine had been removed, and what appeared to be half the important tubing was disassembled. Despite the mess, Orrin Kent still looked immaculate, his white dress shirt barely creased. His black suit jacket had been folded and set over a stack of cardboard boxes in the corner, his rolled-up sleeves his only concession to the mechanical work that he was doing.

Quentin felt suddenly awkward. Since working at the shelter, he no longer wore the suits he had been required to wear when employed at the Sociological Research Center. Beneath his wool coat, he wore jeans and an old blue sweater that was rather worn but miraculously long enough on the sleeves and torso to fit him. Orrin stopped suddenly from where he was unscrewing a small domed object from inside the softener machinery; he looked up, and surprisingly, Quentin felt himself blush at the intensity of Orrin’s focus being entirely on him now.

“Mr. Jan,” Orrin said finally, inclining his head in a somewhat stilted greeting.

Quentin stepped further in the room, smiling slightly. “Call me Quentin, please,” he said softly, the earlier moment of discomfort fading as he looked closely at the younger man.  
Faint marks above Orrin’s right eyebrow and on his left cheek were still visible, even in the dim light of the storage room. The bruises from the car accident had disappeared over time, but the cuts were still healing. He wondered if the other man had nightmares of the crash as well. He looked away, not wanting to think about the bad dreams that woke him up nightly, the sounds from the tunnel echoing in his head, being unable to save the other man…

“I came to talk to you about your research work at Princeton,” Quentin stated abruptly.

Orrin’s brow furrowed in confusion, but he nodded for Quentin to continue as he unscrewed the bolts holding the piece of machinery in his hands together, separating the pieces that were inside and laying them out in a precise order.

“You majored in LGBT studies,” Quentin said, recalling the information from the man’s impressive resume, “There’s quite a few programs for helping the homeless at the shelter I work at, but none of them seem to have anything specific for people who don’t identify as heterosexual or cisgender.”

Orrin straightened and went to rinse a small, curved piece of screen out carefully in the small sink along the wall. “That’s not surprising,” Orrin said quietly over his shoulder, his auburn hair catching the dim flickering light of the bulb above the sink, “Many of the programs for the homeless in this area are funded by churches, not the government. They likely don’t realize that so many displaced youth are part of the queer community.”

Quentin nodded, glancing away at the term ‘queer’. He’d come to see it as a reclaimed identity by younger generations, but he had never quite forgotten the sting of it as an insult in his youth. All things considered, he knew he had been fortunate to have fairly understanding parents, as well as appearing masculine enough to childhood bullies to have avoided the majority of tormenting that had been common during his school years.

“What are you doing?” he asked, curiosity distracting him as Orrin methodically cleaned each piece that he had separated from the softener.

“Cleaning the venturi assembly,” Orrin remarked, studying a few pieces before quickly settling them back into the small domed apparatus and reattaching it to the inside of the machinery. “It’s often the problem when water softeners don’t drain,” he explained further at Quentin’s blank look, biting his lower lip suddenly in a move that seemed shy and somehow very appealing.

Quentin smiled slightly. Outside of the mechanical information that was needed for making minor car repairs and fixing old motorcycles, he was not knowledgeable about such things. Still, it was intriguing to watch the younger man quickly reassemble the machine, turn it on and reprogram it.

“I have a few different articles about shelters that have made steps in being more inclusive, but I was wondering if you had any ideas?” Quentin returned to the original topic, surprised by the nonplussed look that Orrin gave him.

The smaller man reached for his suit jacket, carefully unfolding it and pulling it on as he turned in an attempt to prevent Quentin from seeing where the inside lining was torn. Something about the covert movement caught in Quentin’s chest, and he felt a sadness he could not quite explain. It was clear that Orrin was not used to being asked for advice, his large eyes narrowed in confusion.

“There are programs that can be easily implemented…” Orrin said hesitantly, before regaining the confidence that Quentin had seen in him in their first official meeting, “I have some textbooks in my cubicle that might be of some use.”

Quentin nodded, falling into step next to the man as Orrin moved toward the door. It was strange to walk alongside him, Orrin’s build almost fine-boned compared to the much taller man. Quentin had known of the man’s smaller size when he had pulled him from the wreckage, but he had not really realized it until now that they were standing near one another, Orrin having to tilt his head up slightly to look him in the eye. In the bright lights of the Sociological Research Center’s hallways, the man’s healing cuts were more visible now, his pristine suit a bit large and of a cheaper quality fabric than what many of the other employees wore. Quentin frowned, wondering if Richards was paying Orrin less than he should, in addition to having him repair whatever was broken.

They crossed an open hall, the walls becoming thick railings where the lobby was visible below, the twinkling lights of various Christmas decorations reflecting off of metal surfaces. A loud noise from a group of people entering the building caused Orrin to startle slightly then look away, the younger man’s expression tightening momentarily, the thinness of his face somehow more pronounced than it had been a few weeks before.

They moved in silence, neither finding words to speak. Quentin felt very comfortable around the other man, so much so that it surprised him how quickly they reached the cubicles where most of the interns worked. A few people glanced up as they wove through the maze of cubicles, their eyes widening in confusion at seeing Quentin. A small cubicle near the back of the room was Orrin’s. Although it was bare of the personal touches that most employees used, books were stacked neatly near one wall, everything arranged precisely.

Quentin stepped in, standing in one corner as Orrin began to search through the stack of books. There was a slight pause in the smaller man’s movements as he crouched down, tiredness apparent on his pale features, reminding Quentin that it had only been weeks since the crash. Orrin could have easily died and was likely still healing. Concern warred with respect for the man’s privacy, and Quentin found himself wondering if he should ask about the matter. He had found it difficult to field questions about the crash from well-meaning but often insensitive coworkers; he did not want to put Orrin in the same uncomfortable position of discussing something that he’d rather not.

A single framed photo on the thin cubicle desk caught his eye. He picked it up, the small frame almost disappearing in his hand. It was a poorly taken photo, the harsh glare of the camera’s flash capturing two people who were obviously unaware they were being photographed. The woman was in profile, her head turned to the side as she talked to a man who was clearly irritated by something, his brows drawn close together.

Though graying, the woman’s precisely permed hair was the same shade of auburn as Orrin’s, and she was rather petite. Quentin studied the picture, seeing the curve of Orrin’s jaw in the woman and something about the shape of the mouth. Orrin had the same stern expression when frowning and the same eye color and intensity to his gaze as the man in the photo, but there was a certain aggressiveness about the man that Quentin had not seen in Orrin. Orrin turned, holding two books, opening his mouth to speak but stopping and glancing sharply at the picture that Quentin held. Immediately, Quentin returned it to the desk.

“I’m sorry,” he said, but Orrin shook his head, looking down.

“It’s fine. I forgot I unpacked that earlier.”

“Your parents?” Quentin asked, gesturing to the picture and the other man nodded, shifting the two books he held in his arms awkwardly in order to pick the photo up.

“It’s an old picture, I took it years ago,” Orrin said quietly, but a strange look crossed his face: wariness, and the tentative but unmistakable brightness of hope.

He looked sideways at Quentin, his greenish eyes large, his rich voice hesitant when he spoke again, “They didn’t approve of my choice in career. We don’t really talk much, but they said I could visit this year.” Orrin’s gaze returned to the small photo of his parents. “They’re very… religious. Christmas has always been extremely important to them as a spiritual experience. I don’t have a lot of good memories of the holidays, but I haven’t been home in a long time. I’m not – well, it will be good to see them and my little brothers.”

He looked up at Quentin again, setting the frame down, a distant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “My brothers were in elementary school the last time I was able to see them. Isaac will be thirteen in January, and Sean’s already halfway through high school.”

Quentin returned the smile slightly but felt too unsure to say anything. There were many people he had met at the homeless shelter who had similar stories of navigating family rejection. But then, it was possible that he was reading too much into the situation. Orrin’s family could live far enough away that visiting often really was implausible.

Orrin handed him the two books, gesturing to the top one, “That is a bit outdated, but it has a lot of helpful resources. Unfortunately it doesn’t discuss trans or nonbinary issues much; you’ll have to read the other one to get a more comprehensive picture of what the community needs.”

“Thank you,” Quentin answered, turning the top book over and reading the back with interest. Orrin watched him with that same small smile. The discussion of his family seemed to have filled him with a wistful sort of happiness so that his thinness and exhaustion was no longer so noticeable.

“Do you have any plans for the holidays?” Orrin asked quietly after another long silence stretched between them. Quentin looked up, pushing his graying hair back from where it had fallen in his face and shook his head.

“I don’t really observe major holidays. My family always focused on lesser-known events to celebrate,” he said with fond reminiscence, “I have an older sister who lives in Florida, but she tends to visit in the summers. I’ll be working Christmas Eve and Christmas at the shelter, wrapping gifts for the residents.”

* * *

It snowed heavily again over the next few days, Quentin waking up on Christmas Eve to a city blanketed in white. The roads were travelable, thanks to early plowing, but he grabbed his coat without reaching for his keys. It was oddly peaceful walking to work, despite the cold. His breath left him in small clouds of frozen air, the lights strung over houses causing him to smile slightly, though he felt a bit disconnected from the whole matter. It was true what he had told Orrin; Christmas had not been the main focus of his family’s celebrations. Saint Patrick’s Day, Memorial Day, Labor Day, events such as those had been cause for gift-giving and visiting relatives, and he supposed he had inherited his parents’ dislike for the purely commercialized aspect of Christmas. Still, he had to admit that the decorated shelter would be a welcome sight for those who were without a home or family on the holidays.

Minutes later, he entered the shelter, nodding to Marie who was busy finishing hanging up the last of the paper snowflakes that she and other volunteers had cut out over the week. The dull brown of the shelter’s walls and the scuffed, stained carpets were almost hidden beneath homemade decorations adhering to every available surface. A small tree seemed to be in every room, and the hallways were strung with paper chains, so that Quentin had to duck his head to avoid brushing against them as he crossed the corridor to the tiny staff room. Donations of presents were stacked against one wall, children’s gifts taking up a good portion of the floor and adult gifts lining the counter where an old coffeemaker sat. Quentin frowned as he realized the gifts had been gendered. Christmas music drifted in from the other rooms, intermingling with the distant voices of volunteers and residents, as he reorganized the pile.

Most of the volunteers were directly working on providing food for the residents, and various Christmas activities. Quentin didn’t mind the time alone and worked quickly, wrapping each present and setting it aside. Marie periodically came in to gather the wrapped gifts, but other than that, he was left to himself until late in the day. The muffled sound of hundreds settling down to dinner was audible even with the door closed, and Quentin almost didn’t hear the knock on the staff room door. One of the volunteers, Steven, stuck his head in.

“Quentin, I’ve got someone here who’s looking for you. Says he wants to volunteer.”

Quentin set aside the tape and rounded the battered table that he had been wrapping gifts on. He followed Steven through the shabby halls into the small lobby. He stopped short as his eyes met Orrin Kent’s before Orrin quickly looked away, the smaller man nervously clasping hands behind his back. Steven disappeared into the kitchens and Quentin was left alone with Orrin, who avoided his gaze. It was clear the man had just arrived from work. The black leather jacket he wore over his suit contrasted with his professional clothing underneath, the leather cracked and fading in parts, far too thin to be a winter coat for the Midwest. A long dark blue scarf was wrapped around his neck and shoulders, but he was hatless and gloveless in the cold.

“I thought —” Orrin murmured, his voice sounding oddly strained, “ I thought that you might want some help.”

Quentin stared at him, remembering that Orrin had planned to see his family, a family that he had not been able to see in years. The hope he had glimpsed in the man’s face during their discussion a few days ago was gone. Orrin looked pale, more so than usual. His face was drawn, a tenseness to his features that made him appear older, then suddenly much younger. His large eyes flickered away to stare blankly at the homemade decorations hanging crookedly from the low ceiling. There was something unbearably vulnerable in his movements, as if he were steeling himself not to cry. Some part of Quentin suddenly wanted to go to the man and hold him, but he knew better than to do anything other than pretend as Orrin was, that it was not out of the ordinary for the man to be there.

“Yes,” he answered softly, “I’d like that.”

He led Orrin back to the staff room. The majority of the gifts had been wrapped already, but there was still a sizable pile that he had not finished. Quentin handed Orrin a roll of paper and an extra package of tape.

“Don’t worry if it doesn’t look perfect, it means a lot to the residents that the gifts are hand-wrapped,” he explained when Orrin hesitated. Slowly, the younger man nodded.

It soon became apparent that Orrin had no knowledge of how to wrap a gift, and Quentin took the parcel from his hands, their fingers touching briefly, Orrin’s cold against his own. He did not ask how it was that a man who had graduated summa cum laude from Princeton did not know how to wrap a present, for it was clear that the entire concept of presents was foreign to Orrin.

“Here,” Quentin said gently, showing Orrin how to properly crease the corners of the paper around the edges of the gift.

The man watched him with a slight frown of concentration, copying the same motions tentatively. They wrapped presents in silence; Orrin’s hands awkward at first but soon he was moving with the quiet efficiency that he seemed to have been born with. Marie came in and out to gather another load of gifts to place near the large tree in the basement that served as a dining hall and gymnasium for the majority of the shelter’s events. She gave a distracted smile their way, but volunteers were so often arriving and leaving at various times that Quentin doubted she was surprised to find another person in the room.

Orrin had removed his scarf but had kept his coat on, though unzipped. Quentin looked at him from across the table, unable to avoid thinking of the last time that they had had a table between them, when he had still worked at the Sociological Research Center. He wondered if Orrin still wore the blue topaz pendant he had been wearing the day of the accident. Orrin looked up at him suddenly and Quentin glanced away, feeling himself blush and unsure why.

“Do you often get this many people here for holidays?” Orrin asked suddenly and Quentin shrugged, pushing his long hair out of the way as he reached for another gift,

“It depends. I’ve been told that Thanksgiving and Christmas are when the shelter’s at its fullest for meals. People miss their families most on those days.”

He wondered after he spoke if he should have mentioned family at all, for Orrin was wrapping a book with a level of precision far beyond what was required, his shoulders suddenly tense. Quentin opened his mouth to apologize, when Orrin spoke, his hands moving deftly, his eyes on the paper-strewn table.

“I told you that my parents don’t approve of my career choice,” he said quietly, “The truth is, they don’t approve of a lot of things about me.” He glanced up briefly, his gaze on the wall, the still healing cuts on his face highlighted in the room’s fluorescent light.

“They wouldn’t let me see my brothers after I came out,” he confessed in the silence, and the unsteadiness in his voice was the only mark of his pain now, “The first few years, they’d only contact me to try to convince me to go to some sort of conversion program.”

The raw, wounded emotion that Quentin had felt weeks ago in the tunnel among the wrecks of cars, surrounded him once more. He had known then his desire to protect Orrin from pain, to help in some way, yet he was powerless here to do anything but listen as Orrin returned to wrapping, his movements suddenly deliberately calm.

“I thought things were getting better though. I thought that maybe this year…but my father changed his mind last minute about me visiting. He said he couldn’t risk it,” Orrin stated, bitterness evident in his tone.

Orrin’s hands stilled atop the half-wrapped gift he held. Quentin reached out and laid a hand over Orrin’s, his thumb brushing the back of the man’s knuckles; Orrin turned his palm over and for a moment their fingers interlaced.

“I’m sorry,” Quentin said, knowing the words were not enough, and yet Orrin looked at him with such tired bewilderment that he was sure the words had rarely been said and genuinely meant.

* * *

With Orrin’s help, the gift-wrapping went by much quicker than Quentin had expected it would. A volunteer brought them food partway through, and they ate quietly; Orrin seemed particularly reticent after speaking about his family and Quentin did not want to push him to converse. It was evening when they finished, and Quentin pulled on his coat, turning to Orrin who looked tired and far from his pristine professionalism of a few days before.

“I’ll walk with you to the parking garage,” he offered. Orrin frowned before shaking his head, pulling his scarf on and zipping his leather jacket up.

“I walked to work,” he said quietly, “My car was too damaged for repair after the crash, so I’ve been walking to where I need to go.”

“Then allow me to walk you home,” Quentin suggested, and surprisingly, Orrin gave him a hint of a smile before dipping his head in a nod.

* * *

They walked slowly, neither speaking. The streetlights above them lit the sidewalks where the snow had turned to a gray slush beneath the heels of the hundreds who had walked the streets before them. The air was chill and dry, the coldness of it catching in Quentin’s lungs. Snow fell soundlessly on them, lit by the flickering lights above. The haze of pollution in the air kept the sky from growing completely dark, but still, it felt like the deep of night, a special sort of quiet building between him and Orrin.

The streets were becoming more and more rundown, trash spilling from knocked over cans, loud music playing from the various places they passed that seemed intent on celebrating the holiday with drinking. Then it became quiet again, the buildings around them dark and in poor shape. Cars swept by on the street, their headlights bright, Quentin tensing each time a particularly quick surge of traffic passed. They walked close to one another, their arms occasionally brushing, Orrin’s hands in his coat pockets to keep them warm, their breath appearing as white vapor in the night air.

“My parents know about the car accident, it was printed in the paper back home, but they never called about it,” Orrin said abruptly, snow melting against the leather of his jacket and catching in his auburn hair. “I could have died if you hadn’t helped me,” he murmured, his voice low, the pain in it an open wound, “But somehow it bothers me more that they didn’t call.”

Quentin did not know what to say; he knew only that he would not pretend he did not hear the weary despair in Orrin’s voice, the confusion. He could not allow the younger man to accept this as a burden to carry alone.

“I thought that you had died,” Quentin spoke into the silence, eyes on a scrap of newspaper being blown lightly down the sidewalk in front of them, his mind back at the crash, “When I pulled you out of your car, I was afraid that it was too late.”

He glanced over at Orrin, who was watching him closely, green-blue eyes narrowed against the snow that fell heavier now. The wind pulled lightly at them, tangling snow in Quentin’s long hair and melting it into his beard, cutting through the warm wool of his coat and causing both of them to shiver.

“And then you woke up,” Quentin said softly, remembering the brief moment of consciousness in the tunnel, Orrin stirring awake beneath his touch, blood marking his pale skin, “You’re still here. We are both of us still here.”

He was not sure how to describe what he felt; the anger he had toward Orrin’s parents was like a banked fire, a low burning inside him that he knew would not leave. His own coming-out had not been without difficulties, but he had always had the support of his family. Orrin had no one. And yet, they had both survived the crash and found solace in one another’s presence, unsure of where to begin but looking to each other for something that they could not find on their own.

They walked another block, the curbs piled with trash, abandoned buildings looming against the dark sky. Snow was covering the worst of the litter, clinging to the wire fencing dividing yards of empty warehouses. There were no Christmas decorations here, not even in the few buildings where people still lived. The emptiness of the streets was so different than the sight of cornfields blanketed in snow that Quentin remembered from his childhood town. He felt, suddenly, a powerful desire to go home, if only for a few days, to breathe in the memories and the stillness of winter.

It seemed that there was a loneliness and yearning to them both, and when Orrin halted beneath a streetlight, it was with a touch on Quentin’s hand. The tall building behind him was dark, a crooked sign in front of it reading ‘Palace Apartments’. Dirty and badly in need of repair, Quentin had never seen any dwelling that looked less like a palace. Orrin glanced up at him. The cold wind ruffled his short hair that seemed very reddish against the white of the snow, his scarf falling loose around his shoulders.

“Merry Christmas,” Orrin said quietly. Quentin looked at him. The streetlight shone above them, highlighting the snow that fell steadily, clinging to their clothes, melting against their skin.

The faint damage from the earlier crash was more visible than ever on Orrin’s face. The younger man was almost smiling, but a tired sadness lingered in his gaze that cut Quentin to the heart. He felt again the overwhelming need to comfort this man who had endured so much and looked so lost and alone, abandoned by people who had not cared for him, not even out of a sense of duty. The world was too small to hold all that Quentin felt, looking at Orrin now. He reached out without thinking, touching the man’s cold face, gentle against the mark along the still healing cheekbone.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmured.

Orrin watched him for a long time under the flickering streetlight. Cars rushed by on the street, but Quentin did not flinch at the sound any longer. He was thinking of the first time this winter that he had been out in the snow at night, and he did not first think of the terror of the crash but of the way it had felt to hold Orrin close, to try to offer what help he could. Opening his heart to someone else had been an altogether different fear of his at one time, but it had happened effortlessly and without warning that night. Quentin could not turn away from the promise there, from the way Orrin looked at him now, his face too thin, his eyes shining too brightly in the glow of the streetlight, wet from tears that seemed determined never to fall. Then with a small incline of his head, he stepped back and walked a few paces toward his apartment building before stopping and half-turning to meet Quentin’s gaze again.

“Thank you,” he said, and the warm quietness of his voice held everything that lay unsaid between them, even as he turned away and went inside the dark building.

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, this is some seriously sad stuff at times, but I really didn’t write this with the intention of making you all depressed near Christmas. I really wanted to discuss Orrin’s backstory more and give Quentin’s perspective on the matter as well. Sadly, some people can’t be with their families on Christmas because of disownment/rejection for their sexual orientation (and/or gender identity), or they must remain closeted in order to not ‘upset’ relatives. That’s a really terrible situation for a person to be in. (((hugs))) to all that have gone through this or are going through it. 
> 
> I think it’s important to show that the age difference between Quentin and Orrin causes them to view things a little differently. Quentin is by no means transphobic, but he doesn’t have the knowledge that Orrin has about gender identity, as Quentin’s generation would have likely not even had textbooks that mentioned the matter. Orrin uses the word ‘queer’ without hesitation, but it’s a term that Quentin probably isn’t going to ever be comfortable with using. However, Quentin acknowledges that he was fortunate that despite coming out at a earlier time than Orrin, his family supported him and he never was directly bullied for being gay because he always seemed masculine enough to be perceived as straight. Orrin however comes from a very conservative religious background and it’s pretty apparent that he has had to fight for literally everything in his life, from making the choice for what he majors in to deciding to be out. 
> 
> So, there’s a lot of subtle romance in here, and also a glimpse of Quentin’s old workplace where apparently Orrin is stuck repairing everybody’s things because the boss Richards is a jerk and doesn’t want to hire someone to fix stuff. I spent a day a few months back having to tear apart a water softener to repair it but I am not Orrin and while I managed to clean the Venturi Assembly I had no chance of actually finding the real problem of the machine and finally, I had to get a new one. I think we can all see that ‘Orrin having to do everyone’s work because he’s competent and an intern’ is likely going to be a minor theme in some of these fics. Also, I’m hoping that the next fic in this series will be from Orrin’s point of view. Sorry again about the sadness, I hope I didn’t ruin your Christmas by posting this. There will be happy fics in this series, I promise!


End file.
